


on the tip of my tongue

by Fleeples



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M, Future, Futurefic, San Francisco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fleeples/pseuds/Fleeples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been almost a year, and neither of them have said it, even though it's completely, entirely true, even though it's everything about them, even though they love each other more than they thought they could ever love anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Weird.

“Okay, for real though, Lizzie. Almost a year, and neither one of you has said it?” They’re sat at Lizzie’s former apartment in San Francisco, perched sporadically on a collection of boxes, drinking tea off a too-clean countertop. The place looks as if it was never hers. She can’t say she’s sorry, though. The butterflies in her stomach sing of new promise.

(She’d said she wouldn’t move in with him right away.)

(She didn’t tell him, that as well as being about making sure things were secure, it was also because she couldn’t afford his rent.)

“No,” she says, taking another sip of tea and staring at her life, packed into flimsy cardboard. It’s messily-done: photo albums and mugs slotted into every space they could find, jumbling along in an eclectic union. She wouldn’t have it any other way. William tried to offer to help, but Lizzie wasn’t quite ready to let him organize her perfect chaos just yet. So her sisters and Charlotte flew in for a reunion weekend together, and helped her pack up her life for a second time while they were at it.

Still, they’d have to move towards some thin line of chaos and organization between them at some point.

“That’s weird, Lizzie. You’re moving in together. It’s your anniversary coming up. And neither of you have said the L-word. What’s the deal?”

Lizzie shrugs. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She feels the phantom lens of a camera on her, like she does sometimes, and stares into its blinking light. A confession flashes before her eyes.

“Technically,” contributes Lydia, “He has said it. A long time ago.” She smirks, and Lizzie would smile at the brightness of her sister seeping through all those clouds if it wasn’t for the thought the memory gave her.

Lizzie lowers her eyes to the rim of the mug. “Yeah, well... that was, as you say... a long time ago.”

“So?” says Charlotte. “You know he loves you. He made that pretty clear when...”

“Episode ninety-eight! says Lydia, and grins mischievously. (Lizzie would be annoyed if her smile wasn’t contagious.)

There’s a pause before she lays it out on the line. “The thing is... I always thought he’d say it first.”

“He did,” says Lydia, and Lizzie knows she’s rolling her eyes.

“Under entirely different circumstances. He’s always been the one who’s good at that kind of thing. So I guess it scares me, and I wonder if I should.”

“The real question,” says Jane, who has been pre-emptively brewing more tea, “is do you love him? That’s what really matters here. Not whether or not you should say it.”

“Yes.” The words are very quick from Lizzie, almost defensive. “Yes. Yes. I definitely do. I just can’t say it, and I don’t understand why he hasn’t either.” 

“Maybe he’s waiting for you to say it, this time,” says Charlotte. “I know he’s brave when it comes to that kind of thing, but the last time he said it, it didn’t end well for him.”

Lizzie rolls her eyes, but somewhere inside her heart she has a sneaking suspicion that Charlotte (as she usually is) may be right


	2. almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's trying, really.  
> (He's trying very hard not to.)

When everything’s unpacked (because William insists on unpacking right away, not content to live out of boxes until everything is gradually arranged into where it belongs, like Lizzie), they crack open a bottle of wine and sit back on the sofa together, and she almost says it as her head knocks against his shoulder, settling into an easy rhythm. 

But instead she takes a large sip of wine and buries her face in his shirt, sweaty and tired and happy, and muses that if it’s been such a long time coming, she really should try and do it romantically.

(That’s what she tells herself, anyway. It’s not that she’s scared. She’s not terrified. Not at all.)

And for him, it bubbles under the surface of his tongue as it does every time her eyelashes flicker, every time she smiles, with every breath. And he leans towards her ear and almost says it, but instead he pins masking-tape over the words in his heart and whispers: “You’re so beautiful.”

Because that’s true, too, and he can never say it enough. 

(And she thinks about saying it again, but it gets stuck in her throat and she just kisses him, afraid that this will all dissolve into nothing.)


	3. in a neat tiny box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then she tries, really, really hard.  
> (Too hard.)

_Tonight,_ she thinks, as she applies red lipstick in the mirror. It’s strange, getting ready for a date right next to each other in the same house, but she actually likes the smell of his cologne leftover in the air, the sound of his (somewhat pretentious) indie music blurring through the bathroom door, him humming along, forgetting she’s there. She checks herself and is satisfied with her appearance, and gently peeps out the bathroom door. 

“Hi,” she says. “Are you ready?”

He catches himself for a minute at the sight of her. 

“Yes. Just a moment.”

And a moment it is. They walk down to the car, arm in arm, and he opens the door for her. She laughs. “Thank you, sir,” and kisses him on the cheek. (I-love-you-I-love-you-I-love-you) and he smiles like he saw the sun for the first time, playfully levering her into the seat. They drive to the restaurant, neither one speaking but neither one needing to, listening to the whisper of music from the radio.

The restaurant itself is mood-lit, and Lizzie can feel the romantic energy flowing at her from the moment she enters. Seats and seats of happy couples gazing into each others eyes. She glances at Darcy, who looks unfazed. She supposes she shouldn't be either, right? But something sets her on edge. She’s never been a fan of places like this.

And yet, she picked it.

_Why?_

Because it seemed like the right place to say it, but now she’s here, it isn't, and she wants to bail because she’s so terribly afraid, but it’s William’s arm around her shoulder that grounds her again and reminds her that it will be fine.

They’re seated with all kinds of pretense, and even though Lizzie has a decent amount of money now and isn't living paycheck to paycheck, there’s something about the expense, the rose petals, the candles, the bowls of lemon water that throws her off and feels strange. She likes it, in an indulgence way, but she’s not so terribly at ease as Darcy is. While they look at the menus (the prices, even though she can just about afford them, still raise her eyebrows) her hand finds his and his thumb strokes across her knuckles and she pauses and-

She glances up and thinks it.

(I love you.)  
She tries to force the words out of her mouth, but it feels too contrived, with all these candles and the mood lighting and the other happy couples around him. And on their anniversary. She wrapped it all up in a neat tiny box, trying to give him her heart in a few words, but it just doesn't feel real enough.

So she says: “I think I’ll have shrimp.”

And he says: “Honey and walnut?”


	4. all of this planning

They wake up in each other’s arms the next morning. More specifically, Lizzie wakes up first, and she trails her arm across William to reach the alarm clock and take a look, rousing him gently in the process.

She laughs when she sees it, and he raises his eyebrows. It’s one in the afternoon.

“I’m surprised we managed to sleep at all,” she says.

“Mm,” he mumbles. “Frankly, I don’t remember that part very well.”

She grins and leans up to kiss him, then breaks away. “I guess we should get up at some point.”

“Arguably.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“I always have work to do. So do you. But I think I might pass on it today.”

“William Darcy,” she says with mock outrage. “Are you forgoing your duties on the basis of personal indulgences?” 

“Are you?”

“No question,” she says, and between them they manage to knock the alarm clock onto the floor.

When they do get up, around three in the afternoon, she’s humming in the kitchen making pancakes (although they ate a lot last night, they’re still ravenous now) and he’s sending some quick emails (“I thought you weren’t going to work today?”) and between them they down about a gallon of coffee before she’s even done making pancakes.

“You really should use more baking soda than that. They’re not rising properly. You’re making them like they’re French,” he protests.

“I like them thin. Crepes are so much better.”

“If you say so.”

“Something wrong?”

“I just prefer the classic american taste.”

“Ugh,” she says, rolling her eyes. “William Darcy, you can be so... pretentious.”

“I’m just observing a-”

She sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Fine,” he says curtly. “If you’re so bothered by it, I won’t comment.” And he stares at his screen like it’s on fire.

“Oh, come on,” she says, not caring that the pancakes are burning. “You know I love you, you big idiot, I was just-”

And then she realizes what she’s said and they both freeze, the pancakes sizzling in the background. 

He glances up. 

“Actually,” he says in a very low voice. “I was unaware of that particular detail.”

“Oh,” is all Lizzie says.

“I’m sorry, I know you didn’t mean it in that- I don’t mean to suggest that it was-”

“Shut up,” she says.

“I - er - right, sorry. I just won’t mention it. No pressure. Really.”

“No, I mean, shut up, because that was exactly what I meant, and I’ve been trying to say it for far too long.” 

He fixes his eyes on her. “I’m sorry?”

“I love you. I love you. I love you, OK? William Darcy, I am in love with you. And I’ve been trying to say it for about six months, and then last night at dinner I thought I would, but it felt weird, not like us, and I just-”

He strides somewhat melodramatically across the room, and this time it’s his turn to stop her mouth with a kiss. When they break apart, he says: “I love you too. And I’ve been trying not to say it. For the past... well, since that October.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to push anything on you.”  
“That’s dumb.”

“I’m... sorry?”

“It’s dumb and very sweet.” She laughs and kisses him again, turning off the now charred pancakes with an idle hand. “I love you. Just in case it was unclear.” 

“It’s getting a little clearer now.”

“I’m glad.” She smiles and reaches a hand to touch his face gently, then sighs and turns her head slightly away. “Sorry. I just wish I’d been more romantic about it.”

“Oh, yes, because I was so romantic when I said it.”

“You were trying.”

“That’s dumb,” he says, and she’s laughing again because it sounds so ludicrous coming from his lips, like a petulant child trying out words they don’t understand. “Dumb and very generous.”

(They have to reheat the pancakes.)


End file.
